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Excuse me she said, but don’t I know you? Aren’t you an author?” I stopped, then turned. My familiar story may have started there but it ends here.
In 1979 I laid down my first line of my new novel. It was a very good line. It opened many doors. The rest of the story was crap, but that’s history
By the time you sign your name two hundred and ten times, you are ready to cry out “enough! Until another person tells you of your power.
“Who do I autograph this for?” “Me silly man, surely you haven’t forgotten.” I looked up. The fog of time cleared and an old familiar ache rushed in.
She sat across from me, legs tucked under, watching. I poured the wine. Her perfume, as tantalizing as the memories she had awakened.
Young and foolish taking chances, we meet for drinks. It’s exciting. Her touch on my leg is inviting. I touch back and the game is on.
I awake to church bells. Fuzzy headed; too much wine. She shifts; her skin, hot with passion hours before is cool and smooth to my touch.
Hot coffee chasing greasy bacon, eggs and buttered toast. Sneaking out, I landed here. Cell buzzing, it’s her. I let it go to voice mail. Eventually I have to call.
“Sorry I left without saying goodbye. I had an early flight and I didn’t want to wake you. It was great. No. I’ll call soon.” I lied.
The reviews “Void of passion.” True. I had worked hard to kill her memory from my head. In turn I killed the passion on every page.
Kissed the wife, hugged my son. I will call when I land. I will be back before you go this time. Take care; you only have three weeks to go.
Plane delayed. I sense her first. Gorgeous legs set in Giovanni heels, slender waist and a face that invoked the image of The Madonna.
The airlines put us up in the Charlton Arms. The snow storms lashed the east coast with every trick in its book. It was to be a long night.
The drinks flowed, but I retire to my room at 11. Hell of a way to spend a Saturday. The knock came softly at 11:25.
My daughter was born at 3:00 AM Sunday morning. I didn’t hear the phone. It was left vibrating in my jeans pocket now lying crumbled on the floor a top of her shoes.
“All these calls to Boston,” she asked. “Who are you calling? You don’t have a publisher there any longer and you haven’t written anything in the last 11 months.
I don’t lie very well when confronted. My solution was to feign surprise and anger. I had always been told – deny, deny, deny.
It’s cold here. The walls stripped bare, void of any life. Closets empty, only her scent left. There was a note. I already knew the words.
New York Times broke the news first. Fox crucified me in print and TV. From number three to not even on the best sellers list overnight.
I came out again. New pen name, new location, new publisher, swearing to leave the old me behind. Not succeeding. A ream of useless crumbled paper litters the floor.
I felt the touch on my shoulder. Excuse me she said, but don’t I know you? Aren’t you . . .? “

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I love a well crafted analogy. The fun of being a writer – for me – is being a word smith. Drafting an analogy does that for

Broken coffeemaker, NYC, 11/21/07 – 1 of 4 (Photo credit: goodrob13)

me. Analogies keep a writer’s mind sharp, which is why I started doing them years ago. The best ones come off the top of my head, other times I have to work at them. That’s why its good to have a small notebook handy. Today’s impromptu analogy came about when I took my car over for some minor repair work. A man – sitting next to the coffee pot, asked me if I thought the coffee pot should be on when the pot was empty. As I was sitting on the other side of the room and we were the only two people there, I said “no, you should probably turn it off. ” His reply was “well I didn’t turn the pot on.” The analogy I thought of right then; and one which I voiced rather sarcastically, was “that’s like watching someone who is going to fall into a hole, and someone saying “hurry – warn him,” and you saying, “But I didn’t dig the hole.”

After his brain engaged; it took a second or two, (yes, ignorance is bliss) he got the point. The coffee pot was saved.

Wikipedia has a good definition of Analogy – http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Analogy but I am interested if you readers / writers have ever come up an original analogy you want to share. Comment back. I look forward to reading them.

Not every present has to be new; it just has to have love and a special meaning attached to it.

Every year, as the temperature starts to drop and the leaves turn brassy gold, an old memory comes back to me. It dates back to my early childhood in Michigan, specifically the fall of 1957. The air was crisp and filled with the smell of pine burning in fireplaces and nutmeg. Leaves from the six oak trees that bordered our yard had already fallen and the squirrels had harvested all the acorns their little nests could hold. Winter was fast approaching –“softly,” as my grandmother would say, “like the whisper of little duck feet paddling through the grass on their way to water.” Dad was out in the garage putting the finishing touches on the converted house trailer that held the 22 foot Chris Craft cabin cruiser he had built.

“Son,” he called out, “come on, we’re going shopping. Get in the car.” To go shopping with my Dad was a big deal for me. I piled into his pink (yes I said pink) 56 Buick convertible and threw my arm up on the windowsill that, at nine years old, came just about level to the base of my earlobe. An awkward position I had put myself in, but it was semi-warm, Dad had the top down, and I looked cool.

Off we went until about ten miles later we stopped in our first antique store. “I’m looking for a special something for your mother for Christmas,” he said turning to me, “so you have to keep this trip a secret.” I swore I would, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what my mother would want from a store that sold old junk. Never mind, I was with my Dad. Three hours and four antique stores later, I was less enthused. I was tired and bored out of my nine-year old skull. I hadn’t learned the art of antique buying, nor for that matter – patience. Besides, there were toys I couldn’t play with, tools I couldn’t touch and God forbid if I stepped too close to a shelf full of antique cut glass. Dad however was in seventh heaven.

As I stood looking at a set of WWI medals and Meerschaum pipes sitting in a glass case, I heard Dad say, “That’s it!” As I turned, he was reaching for an old dingy, dirty and bent brass ships bell sitting on the floor this old store. Holding it in his hands, caressing it as if he were gazing upon the Holy Grail, he headed towards the counter where an old grey haired man and his wife sat; she crocheting while humming to herself and him, watching me out of the corner of his eye.

“How much for this old dirty bell,” my Dad asked. “$15” the old man said without hesitation. Remember – in 1957, you were “well off” if you made $5200.00 a year. $15.00 was a lot of money and a weeks worth of groceries. Dad put the bell down on the counter quickly stepping back as if it burned him. “It’s not made of gold is it?” he asked. The old man smiled but didn’t waver. “Here’s what I’ll do” Dad said, I’ll give you $7.00 for it.” The old man shook his head no. “Make it $10.00 and you have a deal,” he grunted. Dad shook his head and handed the bell to me. “Here son, go put this back. We’ll have to find something else for your mother for Christmas this year.” Then turning back to the old man he said, “Sorry old timer, all I have is $8.00 to spend and I still have to buy my boy dinner after we leave here.” Dad hung his head and motioned for me to hurry along. “Ok,” the old man said, “You can have it for $8.00 but you’re killing me.” His eyes were smiling as he and Dad shook hands. By this time, that old bell was getting heavy. “OK boy, carry it to the car,” Dad said as he paid the man. On the drive back, Dad pointed out that what he had done was called the art of negotiating. That was the first time I had ever heard that term. “We made of great deal,” he said as he carried a Cheshire cat grin with him all the way home.

Christmas day that year brought snow – lots of it. Early morning, after my brother and I opened our presents and Dad opened his striped tie we got him, Mom started to busy herself with cleaning up the discarded wrappings. Dad left the room and came back with all of our coats and scarfs, announcing, “I’ve got one more present but it’s outside.” Bundled up like refugees from a Siberian mining camp, we all traipsed outside, where Dad led us to the garage. He told my mother to close her eyes. As she did, he opened the garage door hiding the boat. There on the stern of his newly built boat just above the dark blue fiberglass waterline were the words “The Shirl J” in gold letters with a red outline. My mother’s name is Shirley. He had never told her what he was naming the boat. There was also a ladder leading up into the interior. After Mom hugged my Dad, with tears in her eyes, he led her to the ladder. She climbed up into the boat and there – just past the spot where the flying bridge windshield would eventually go, sat the newly polished – newly restored brass bell with the words “The Shirl J – 1957” engraved on the bell skirt. They kissed so long this time, we kids were told to go back into the house.

I learned two things that Christmas. The first was that not every present has to be brand new; it just has to have love and a special meaning attached to it. Secondly, antiques – like found treasures, are great for conveying that special meaning.

There is something downright sensual about holding a finely balanced fountain pen in your hand. The stimulating and provocative flow of polished metal on paper, coupled with the deep translucent color of fresh wet ink as it flows from the tip, stimulates your creativity like no other instrument. It’s the same feeling I get when I cut a delicate line with a newly sharpened gouge while wood carving. The connective stimulation one feels when fingertips and instrument are one and the same.

I sit here, late at night, hold my favorite Montblanc Meisterstuck 149 pen while writing this. On my desk and up for sale is my most recent acquisition – a rare Montblanc Meisterstuck 146 that I just got received from Montblanc after having it fully refurbished. I want to draw ink into it so bad that I had to pull out my 149 just to get over the urge. It is a beautifully balanced example of German artisanship. The companion desk holder does justice to the quiet elegance of this pen.

So much is written about the Montblanc, that I could not add anything that could further enhance its reputation other than to say, everything they write about its quality and beauty, pales in comparison to actually holding and writing with one. The final test of this pens quality – for me anyway – is the hardest part to imagine unless you are a writer who uses a pen. I will do my best to convey it however. I have to end this piece and put the pen down. Unlike many other pens in my collection, a Montblanc become an extension of you that you will not want to quit.

If you are interested in this unique Montblanc 146, ca late 1970’s, you can see it in my pen & writing Instrument case at the American Classics Antique Mall – space B30, (Dads Corner of Mom & Me’s Vintage Linens & Lace,) or write me at GAClark@Write4Me.net and we can discuss details.

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I have to admit I didn’t know much about steampunk. I probably still don’t know a lot about steampunk, even after my long conversation with two neat people who came into my store dressed in Victorian steampunk style. I’m learning however.

However, I am always curious and open to new things. Shrugging off my middle America farm girl cloak, I went looking for answers to my question “What is Steampunk?” Thanks to Wikipedia I learned that Steampunk is a genre that originated during the 1980s and early 1990s and incorporates elements of science fiction, fantasy, alternate history, horror, and speculative fiction. It involves a setting where steam power is widely used—whether it be an alternate history such as Victorian era Britain or the “Wild West” era United States, Science fiction depicts Steampunk in a post-apocalyptic time —that incorporates elements of either science fiction or fantasy.